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by TomBowline



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Gender Dysphoria, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, POV Sir James Clark Ross, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Trans Male Character, Trans Male Francis Crozier, midshipmen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:27:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27529219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomBowline/pseuds/TomBowline
Summary: Francis was fond of kissing and being kissed, fond of a hand stroking in his hair or on his back, fond of hearing James’ choked sounds of pleasure and feeling James’ yard in his hand, but he would not suffer himself to be touched thus in return. The idea James had, the risk he would be taking, was this: a way of bringing Francis pleasure without the use of his touch.Day 2 of Trans Terror Week! "Barrow'sParry's Boys", shoehorned because I wanted to write about the Midshipmen Days.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Sir James Clark Ross
Comments: 9
Kudos: 51
Collections: Trans Terror Week





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It was a quiet night on Her Majesty’s Ship _Fury_ \- as quiet as it could be, with the pace of the watch and the creak of the ice - and midshipman James Clark Ross was preparing to take a monumental risk. 

It was always a risk, of course, to be with Francis. Secreting themselves away as regularly as they did, in storerooms and closets and dark corners of the orlop, might indeed be considered a larger risk than the one he was about to take. Yet somehow he felt this danger more keenly than the abstract dread of being caught, for it was of such a personal nature.

Francis was fond of kissing and being kissed, fond of a hand stroking in his hair or on his back, fond of hearing James’ choked sounds of pleasure and feeling James’ yard in his hand, but he would not suffer himself to be touched thus in return. Owing to a certain outward resemblance between himself and those women who would shear their hair to join the service - only a resemblance, mind, for Francis Crozier was a man through and through - he did not wish for a hand on the bare flesh of him. James could think of several reasons for this reticence, but he preferred not to speculate; it was enough that Francis did not want it. It was clear, in any case, that Francis wanted _James_ \- it was only that James was growing rather desperate for a way to show Francis how much he was likewise wanted. 

He knew it did not stem from a general indifference to passion; on the contrary, he had rarely met a more passionate creature than Francis. It seemed to spill out from the seams of him each minute they were together - his face dazed and flushing, his lips slack from kissing James, his soft _Oh_ when James spent over his fist. He noted all these things with ardency; noted, also, the way Francis would squeeze his thighs together or rub over his own trouser-front with a hand as he watched James come apart for him. Not averse to his own touch, then - only shy of being touched by another. 

The idea James had, the risk he would be taking, was this: a way of bringing Francis pleasure without the use of his touch. If he should agree, it would be a chance for James to show his appreciation, his affection, his inadvisably strong desire for this man with whom he spent his days and nights. James very much hoped he would agree. 

Tonight they were tucked into a corner of slops storage - the watch had just changed, and barring some calamity which required more men to brave the icy deck they should be undisturbed for some time. They were folded smartly between the layers of canvas, James with his tongue in Francis’ mouth, Francis with his hands on James’ hips, two ropes in a well-fashioned knot. It was only when Francis pulled away, gasping, to turn his attention to the disrupted line of James’ trousers that James found his voice. 

“Francis— I wonder—” He was briefly arrested by the tilt of Francis’ broad open face as he turned his head the fraction upwards it took him to look at James eye-to-eye. “I wonder if I might do something for you tonight.”

Francis drew back, shifting slightly inward as he flicked his eyes away. “You know I will not be touched, James. I am not built for it.”

James privately thought that Francis was a man built only to be touched - caressed and mapped in all his soft sturdy places, attended on with the highest assiduity like a vital ship’s instrument. Perhaps, he thought, such openness would come in time. When they were captains, and sailing together, then surely Francis would feel sure enough to let James touch him as he deserved.

He respected, however, the frame of what Francis was saying. “What I have in mind,” he said - picking at a loose board with his boot-toe until a perilous creak made him leave it off - “does not involve touch. Well— In a sense. You would bring yourself off, and let me speak to you through it.”

Francis frowned, shifted, bit his pinkened lip. “Speak to me. What of?”

“Well.” James was brought up short. “Anything I can guess at that might please you.” He took a chance, moving in further to slip one leg lightly between Francis’ own and set his mouth near Francis’ ear. He felt the downy tuft of hair grown long that masqueraded as a side-whisker tickling his own patchy prickly cheek as he let his voice drop low almost beyond hearing. “Would it please you to hear how much I want your cock in my mouth?”

Francis shuddered against him then, and - oh, wonder - dropped his hips down to grind into James’ leg as he caught James in another kiss. His arms came up to clutch ‘round James’ shoulders, stroking covetously. The answer, when it came, was tucked into James’ neck with a feverish nod; “Yes, James, christ.”

He pushed his thigh experimentally up into the soft center of Francis’ legs, feeling a wash of singing arousal at finally, _finally_ being able to feel Francis this way. A gasp slipped from his lips when he felt Francis squeeze hotly at him through both their trousers. “Oh,” he groaned softly, remembering only hazily his grand plan for pleasure. “I can feel your cock. Christ,” he hissed, bracing his leg for the rolling of Francis’ hips, “Christ, you’re so hard.” He could not feel the actuality of Francis’ hardness, and he lamented it - perhaps, he thought again, in time - but he could just discern the hot seam of him pressing down onto the top of his thigh, and there was no doubt of his being hard within it. 

He felt the frantic brush of knuckles over his belly as Francis fumbled with his trousers, got them open just enough to plunge his hand in. “Yes,” James whispered, “that’s right. Frig yourself for me, dear man. Christ, yes.” He lost his train of thought momentarily - entirely the fault of Francis’ mouth and the soft nipping kisses it was leaving in the hollow behind his jaw. These attentions combined with the intermittent brush of Francis’ elbow against James’ belly made him feel rather delirious; he had been welcomed, just a bit more, into the soul of this incredible man. Francis was nimble on the ropes and sturdy on the deck, he was possessed of a sharp avidity for scientific pursuits, he was a capable sailor and a remarkable man. And he was kissing James’ neck, gripping James’ waist, letting James participate in his pleasure. 

He ought, he remembered then, to actually be participating. “I want you in my mouth,” he murmured, back near Francis’ ear, pressed in cheek to cheek. “I’d go on my knees for you right here. I’d do it anywhere.” Francis gasped, hitched and brittle. His hand was flying back and forth beneath the dark wool of his trousers. “I want to feel you leaking down my throat,” James continued, feeling wild for it. “Want to feel your prick twitching on my tongue, Francis.”

“God,” Francis breathed, legs flexing around James’ thigh, “god, god. James.”

“That’s right. Your prick in my mouth. Fucking my mouth. Francis.” He felt his own hardness secondarily, tangentially. Much more immediate was the shake of Francis’ legs, the gasp of his breath, the flush of his face. “Want to feel it when you come. Want to drink you in.”

“Yes—” Frantic, now, seizing and stammering. “Yes, James, James—”

“Let me have it, Francis, I want it. Come for me, man.”

Francis went rigid in James’ arms, pressed his forehead into James’ neck as if trying to hide there as he reached his crisis. James would harbor him gladly, would take him into his heart and body and soul and build him a home if he were permitted. For the moment he settled for folding Francis in his arms and kissing chaste lines down his neck, nose tucked behind ear, hands rubbing over back. _I want it. I want you._

Francis groaned then and fell slack against him. “Bloody Christ, James,” he muttered. “Truly. Truly.” He seemed at a loss for words. It was fortunate, then, that there was no need for conversation, as James was turning his head to kiss the insensibility from him. He returned the kiss marvelously, soft-mouthed and shocked - James could feel the change, the rousing tongue, when he regained his footing and began to think of James’ pleasure. A moment later, his tongue was followed by a hand swept up over James’ groin, feeling out the indecorous degree of his arousal. 

He couldn’t help the violent twitch of his hips at the touch; he almost dislodged Francis’ hand as it worked on his flies. He expected Francis to spit, but the hand that reached into his drawers was slick already - with Francis’ own spend, James realized, and had to bite down on a sound. 

It did not take long for him to reach his end. The familiar calluses on Francis’ fingers, the movement of Francis’ mouth on his, the sure steady strokes of Francis’ palm - he could not withstand such inducements. He came with a gritted-out sigh and a small river of seed into Francis’ deft hand, with a spinning head and a disarrayed heart.

He was brushing his hair back into place as best he could when he found the words to ask. “Did you— Was that something you would care to repeat?”

Francis set his hands on top of James’ with a squinting look at him - sour, it looked on first acquaintance, but James knew he was simply focusing - and smoothed James’ hair back towards its queue with earnest combing touches. When this had been done, he leaned in and kissed James one final time. Final, for they courted danger by lingering; final, until the next night.

“Yes,” Francis said at last. “I would like that very much.”


End file.
